


Force Draw

by actizera (kitestringer)



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: AU, Jealousy, M/M, Pool, Sex in a Car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 07:54:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7706650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitestringer/pseuds/actizera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU. Beecher watches Keller shoot pool, which leads to him wanting a blowj— Wait, I'm starting to sense a theme here...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Force Draw

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in mid-2004 (I think).
> 
> Original notes: "This is an AU. I started it more than a year ago, as a sort of an exercise to get me past a bad case of writer's block (Maverick told me to write about Beecher watching Keller do something). At the time, I was reading an anthology of stories of William Carlos Williams, so, for fun, I tried using his dialogue style (i.e., no quotation marks). After it became more of a story than a writing exercise, I thought about making the dialogue more standard, but it kind of felt wrong to change it at that point. Anyway, that's why this story is...like it is. LOL. Thanks to Mav and Rowan for encouragement and for helping me try to think up a title."

He seems annoyed at first that I'm bowing out of the game. I tell him I'm doing everyone, including him, a favor by sitting this one out. Let me take a break and just watch, I say with a smile, the most genuine smile I can manage in the wake of this latest humiliating defeat.  
  
He stands there shifting his cue from one hand to the other, trying to decide whether he's going to let me off the hook. You're never gonna get better if you keep quitting, he says, scowling.  
  
I tell him I want to learn by observation for a while. I ease myself up onto a bar stool and light a cigarette, hoping to end the discussion. It seems to work, and he starts gathering the balls and looking around for someone else to play against. An older guy who's been standing quietly against the wall grabs a cue and comes over. He's one of those men who looks like he just stepped off the plane after leading an expedition up Everest or something—weather-beaten, rugged, tanned, wiry, self-assured. I watch him set what looks like a tumbler of scotch down on a nearby table and start chalking up his cue as he casually sizes Chris up.  
  
There's something satisfying in the way Chris always keeps track of me. It never changes. I can feel that I'm in his peripheral vision even when he seems to be concentrating on the game; nothing I do ever escapes him. For fun, I test it now by forcing a yawn and looking away while he breaks. Pay attention, he growls, without even turning his head to look. The other guy assumes at first that Chris is talking to him. He looks confused, so I answer. I tell Chris I am paying attention and that the yellow solid ball went in, and is he going to try to hit the purple one in next?  
  
He laughs and shakes his head and says the same thing I've heard a thousand times now: You never think past your next shot, do you Beecher?  
  
No, frankly, I never do. It's one ball at a time for me, and it probably always will be. It isn't so much that I _couldn't_ plan my shots, on a purely theoretical level—it's more a matter of preferring to avoid the frustration of not having the skill or coordination to implement any such plan. It's fun to watch Chris strategize, though. He chalks his cue as he scans the table, taking his time, probably trying to make the other guy squirm. The other guy doesn't seem to be squirming quite yet. Either he's very good or he's never seen Chris play.  
  
Chris walks to the other side of the table and examines the configuration of balls again for a few seconds. Then, without warning or hesitation, he bends over and takes his shot. He doesn't change his posture until the red ball he had been aiming for banks off the opposite side of the table, just barely misses two others, and rolls directly into the corner pocket. The cue ball has spun backwards after making contact and is now perfectly aligned for another shot, one that even I could make.  
  
He goes on to sink his next three shots. Each time, I hold my breath without realizing it until the balls are no longer in motion. Each time also brings a surge of adrenaline that makes my fingers tingle, and at first I think it's because I'm excited on his behalf, the way I should be. But when he looks over at his opponent and smiles after his first miss, I realize that isn't it. This is nothing but typical, garden-variety jealousy, and it annoys the hell out of me.  
  
I force myself to dissect that jealousy into its components. None of them are particularly novel or interesting; it's pretty much the same old story. Chris effortlessly projects this aura of _confidence_ —it surrounds him no matter what he's doing, and it draws people to him like a magnet, makes them want to stay close and watch him. His bright smile could melt the polar ice caps, and it somehow manages to make an appearance even after he misses a shot he would normally make. What sportsmanship. That smile is directed at this other person, this stranger, someone who's never felt its heat before, and he, like most people, appears physically unable to resist smiling back. Who could possibly blame him?  
  
I shift in my seat and clear my throat, then light another cigarette while smoke from my last one is still curling into the air above the ash tray. Chris backs away from the table to give his opponent some room, then stops to watch, his hands wrapped loosely around his cue, holding it upright against the floor. He bats it slowly from hand to hand except for when the other guy is lining up his shot, when he stands still and seems to hold his breath. Chris's eyes travel from the man's face to the tip of his cue and back again.  
  
I watch Chris watching him, and then I watch him step away and to the side as the other guy prepares to line up an awkward shot that requires him to hold the cue behind his back as he sits on the edge of the table. My fingers are still stiff with nervous sensation. The man he's playing with seems incredibly relaxed, although he really shouldn't be—he's well on his way to getting his ass kicked in front of an audience. He takes the shot behind his back carefully and misses by only a fraction of an inch. Then he hops off the table and grins at Chris. He says something that's probably supposed to be endearingly self-effacing, and I hear myself snort before I can do anything about it. They both glance at me, and I turn it into a minor coughing fit.  
  
How does this guy see me? Casual pickup? Close, overprotective friend? Bitchy, jealous boyfriend? Or has he really noticed me at all? Chris, as always, is a natural center of attention. This man—  
  
Excuse me, what did you say your name was? I ask. It takes him a second or two to realize I've said something to him, but he finally looks up at me, blinks, and answers. John. His name is John.  
  
—John has barely let his eyes wander from Chris or the pool table since he came over. I wouldn't be surprised if he had been watching Chris long before that. Unfortunately for him, looking is all he'll be doing. That thought makes me smile, because I know from firsthand experience how painfully frustrating it is to see Chris but not be able to touch. I remember the first time I watched Chris shoot pool, in this same room, just a couple tables away from where we are now. He had been dressed a little more provocatively at the time—a tight black wifebeater and jeans instead of a slightly less tight long-sleeved thermal and jeans—but, other than that, he looks about the same. Still turning heads in gay bars across the land. Yeah, okay, straight bars, too.  
  
Not that I'm totally lacking in that department, it seems. A cute blond at the next table is watching me as he chalks up his cue with a little too much gusto, tiny cascades of blue powder landing unnoticed on the front of his shirt. I smile at the sight—a smile I immediately realize will be misinterpreted by anyone who sees it. My cheeks warm as I look away, look down at my cigarette, look over at the illuminated Heineken clock on the wall, look at my own watch, look deeply and intently into my ginger ale as I take a slow sip, and then, almost against my will, let my eyes fall back to rest on the blond guy—just for a second, but long enough to see that he's still looking at me and smiling even bigger now.  
  
The whole situation, innocent as it might be, makes me guiltily excited, but not for any reason Blondie over there might suspect. Guilty, because I have very vivid memories of the last actual fistfight I saw Chris involved in, a fight that started with a drunk groping my ass in a bar. Excited, because I can't stop myself from remembering how rough and possessive Chris's mouth and hands felt on me when he fucked me later that night. It's like I can feel them again already. I shift my glance away from Blondie and over to Chris. Someone who didn't know him would think nothing was out of the ordinary, but I know in an instant, simply from the set of his jaw and the tightness in his shoulders, that he saw it all.  
  
There are only three balls left on the table: a solid, the cue ball, and the eight ball. Chris lines up his shot faster than usual, too quickly; the cue ball sends the solid spinning a few inches off target, then banks hard and ends up knocking the eight ball into the corner pocket.  
  
Chris loses.  
  
He exhales in a hissing breath, shaking his head in disgust. Whatsisname is saying Hey, good game, or some shit like that—but I'm paying attention only to Chris, who's taking the long way around the table, the way that takes him close enough to invade Blondie's personal space and give him his most threatening grin as he passes by on his way back to where I'm sitting. He uses one hand to grab his beer bottle and down the last few swigs and the other to pick my jacket up off a nearby chair and shove it against my chest.  
  
Time to go, he tells me. Since when do you walk away after a loss? I ask him. Since right now, he says. Let's go.  
  
He stays long enough to shake hands with Joe or whatever his name is before directing me to the door with a firm hand on the small of my back. There was a time when that habit of his annoyed me to no fucking end, but that was before I learned enough about Chris to decipher his repertoire of gestures. I used to think he was treating me like a child or his possession, like he needed to demonstrate something to me and everyone around us. Now I know that what it's really about is _connectivity;_ he does it when he needs to maintain contact with my body, for his own peace of mind. The implications for later on, when we're alone together, are _all good._ The only question is how long he'll be able to wait.  
  
It doesn't take long before I imagine I've learned the answer. As soon as we reach his truck I find myself pinned hard against the side, Chris's chest heaving against my back. He tells me he saw me smiling at that twink in the bar, and he'd like to know what I have to say for myself. He's trying to sound very serious, but I can tell he isn't truly angry. He also has an erection, and he's gently humping my ass as he speaks.  
  
I wasn't smiling at him, I say. I was _laughing_ at him. Now why don't we just get in the truck and go home, Chris? It's getting kind of late.  
  
He laughs against my neck, a low chuckle I can feel everywhere from my cheeks to my groin to the tips of my toes. Then he surprises me by pulling away suddenly, moving me to the side and unlocking the door. I just stand there, missing the feel of him rocking against me.  
  
Chris walks around to the driver's side, gets in, and starts the truck. The window on my side rolls down. What are you waiting for? he asks. An engraved invitation?  
  
Maybe I'm waiting for a better offer, I suggest with a warm smile. He just laughs and shakes his head as he puts the truck in gear and I climb in.  
  
As we start off through the dark city streets, I begin to plan how long I'll maintain the façade of indifference once we get home. Maybe I'll head straight into the kitchen and start making something for lunch at work tomorrow. I think of all the possibilities that could lead to—  
  
Chris attacking from behind, wrapping his arms tight around me, biting into my neck as he reaches inside my pants...  
  
Chris taking hold of my wrist, the butter knife clattering to the counter, being spun roughly to face him, a kiss so bruising my lips will be sore when I walk into the office the next day...  
  
Chris grabbing me by the back of my neck, shoving me to the table and bending me over it, tearing at my fly until he's able to pull my jeans down just enough...  
  
I don't allow myself to follow the progress of any of these scenarios to their completion. Not now, not yet. Instead, I reach forward and turn up the air conditioning. Chris watches me as I do it, and the next thing I know, we're taking a wrong turn down a street I don't think I've ever been on before.  
  
What the fuck? I murmur, knowing very well exactly what. Chris pulls the truck into a dark alley, slams the breaks, and locks the doors—first his, then mine, leaning across me to do it. Grabbing me by each arm, he pulls me closer to him and shifts himself a little closer to me. Then his head is in my lap, his lips and breath warming my cock through my jeans.  
  
I don't think this is such a good idea, Chris—why don't we wait until...we should...Chris...oh...fuck...  
  
It takes only seconds of being inside Chris's mouth before I lose all motivation to keep up the act. He works me with his tongue and sucks with all his strength, the way he does when he wants to make me come very, very quickly. He's holding my hips in his hands, fingers digging into muscle, holding me down and in place, immobile. He knows everything that drives me crazy by now, and nine times out of ten it feels so goddamn good I don't even think to throw him a curve ball, maybe shake things up a little. But tonight feels like a special occasion.  
  
I push him off me—maybe a little too roughly, but I don't want to give him a chance to react. My turn, I snarl, and then I tear open his fly. I wrap my fist around the base of his cock and wrap my mouth around the rest, swallowing hungrily as that first surge of precome hits my tongue. My own erection is trapped against the seat, sticking uncomfortably to the vinyl, but I'm enjoying the sensation of Chris's hard cock in my mouth too much to do anything about it just yet. He buries his fingers in my hair and starts raising his hips off the seat to meet me, fucking my mouth and growling my name.  
  
I can't get enough of Chris being this close to out of control, of knowing he's this way right now because of me—knowing that no matter what other guys he's been with, he wants _me,_ when he could have anyone. I can't ever fucking get enough of it, and I always want more. I suck harder, take him deeper, close my fist tight around him and stroke him, and then roll to my side so that I can jerk myself off, and so that he can watch me do it.  
  
Oh, _fuck,_ Toby, yeah... _yeah_...  
  
The sounds filling the truck are making me as hot as anything—the wet sounds of Chris's cock in my mouth; the faster, stickier sound of my own cock in my hand; the creaking of the seats beneath us; our heavy breathing, punctuated with grunts and sighs. We sound like a porn movie, minus the soundtrack. I hear the sounds I'm making in the back of my throat intensify even before I feel the tightening in my abdomen that tells me I'm starting to orgasm, and suddenly I lose my rhythm as I jerk hard and come. Chris strokes my hair and waits until I'm finished before he starts thrusting into my mouth again, even more frantic now than he had been.  
  
I let him slide out of my mouth and start pumping him hard with my fist, crawling to his seat and straddling him as best I can. It's obvious that he's close, and when he comes I want him groaning into my mouth, so I press my open mouth to his and savor the taste of him, the lingering flavor of beer. I pull my shirt up and whisper against his lips, Come on, come on, come on, and he does, convulsing beneath me and shooting warm come against my stomach.  
  
I think he catches his breath even before I do—which I'm just going to go ahead and chalk up to the smoking instead of to the quality of his orgasm, because he looks _so_ satisfied. Chris—like most of us—has different degrees of "satisfied," and I've made a careful study of all of them. Right now, he's "gonna have to wait a few before I start the truck again" kind of satisfied. Works for me.  
  
You gotta do that in here? he asks, as I roll down my window and light up a cigarette.  
  
Yeah, kind of. Sorry.  
  
He sighs and uses his sleeve to wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead, muttering something about not even being able to wait until we get home.  
  
Look who's talking, I say, maybe a little smugly. I can get away with it, too, because Chris is almost always a good sport after I make him come. And yeah, he laughs a little at that, because I _do_ have a point.  
  
He leans over to my side of the truck again, lets his head rest against my chest as he takes the cigarette from between my fingers and brings it to his own lips. I watch him take a small drag off it and exhale the smoke slowly. Smooth, he says. Satisfying. And then he flicks the whole thing out the window and into the alley.  
  
You're such a prick sometimes, I tell him. But I can't stop laughing. I guess maybe I'm a pretty good sport after I come, too. Chris just gives me his most gorgeous smile and starts up the truck.  
  
As we make our way home, I spend a couple of seconds trying to decide who came out on top tonight. But in the middle of sorting through events and ticking off points, I turn to see Chris's profile, lit by the lights of traffic, and then he turns to me and grins a little and reaches out to touch my hair, pretending to comb a piece back into place, and then I forget why I ever cared about who's on top of whom.  
  
Losing to Chris...sometimes it feels strangely like winning.


End file.
